Harry Potter: Blood Raven

The heavy bass still throbbed through the club's concrete shell, a distant pulse like a bad memory that refused to fade. Out here, the air was brisk, biting at bare shoulders and overheated skin, but no one moved. No one spoke.

Thea yanked her arm from Laurel's grasp like it had burned her. Her heels scraped roughly against the pavement as she put a few stubborn feet of distance between them.

"Don't," Thea snapped, voice laced with venom and vodka. "I'm not a kid, Laurel. You don't get to shove me in a cab and give me your 'responsible adult' face."

Laurel took a breath — slow, measured, like she'd practiced it in court. "You're not a kid. I know that. But you're hammered, Thea. And I'm not about to let you climb into a car with some guy named 'Chaz' who thinks vodka Red Bulls are a personality."

From the side, Joanna slid her phone back into her sparkly clutch and offered a breezy, businesslike update. "Rideshare's five minutes out. Prius. Driver's name is Grant. Statistically boring. Face looks like a tax accountant. We're good."

Oliver took a step forward. His voice was low, steady, but tight. "I'll take her."

Thea laughed — sharp and humorless, like a bottle cracking against pavement.

"Oh, now you want to play chauffeur? What's next? Tucking me in? Telling me I'm grounded?" She spun on her heel, almost tripping, then pointed at him like she was aiming a dart. "You don't get to come back from the dead and start issuing commands."

"Laurel, Joanna—" Oliver started, but Laurel cut him off before his sentence could find its spine.

"No," she said, not loud, but with enough edge to slice through concrete. "You don't get to come back after five years and act like you still get a say. You don't get to protect her when you weren't here to stop the damage in the first place."

Oliver's jaw flexed, teeth grinding behind stoicism. But he didn't argue.

Laurel turned back to Thea, her voice softening — not weak, just less armored.

"You'll come with me. You'll crash at my place, I'll feed you crackers and Tylenol, and tomorrow we'll deal with whatever this is." Her lips curled into the ghost of a smile. "Hungover, hopefully."

Thea wavered. Her mascara was slightly smudged — not from tears, just the natural consequence of a long night spent chasing highs and outrunning shadows. Her pride flared for one final protest.

"I'm not apologizing," she mumbled. "For anything I said."

Laurel nodded. "Wouldn't expect you to. Most of it needed to be said."

Joanna stepped in like this was just another night in Gotham. She slipped an arm around Thea's shoulders and flashed her a grin that sparkled even in the parking lot's yellow light.

"Come on, Lil' Queen. Let's leave the testosterone stew behind and go binge-watch something dumb and comforting."

"Something with murder," Thea said blearily. "Preferably fictional."

Joanna winked. "Always, babe."

The trio started walking toward the curb. Thea didn't look back.

Oliver watched them go, something unspoken burning behind his eyes. Regret? Guilt? Both were too small to name it all.

Tommy, hands in pockets, exhaled like he was deflating. "Welp. That wasn't emotionally scarring at all. I mean, it's not a party until someone weaponizes abandonment trauma."

Oliver didn't answer. He was still watching that corner like Thea might round it again.

A black SUV purred to a stop beside them.

The window rolled down with a subtle shhhhk.

Diggle leaned out, eyes scanning the scene with military precision and civilian exasperation. His voice was dry as desert air.

"I told you not to lock me out."

Oliver turned. "Dig—"

Diggle held up a finger. "Later. I'm sure there's a beautiful five-part tragedy coming. But right now? You both look like a bad decision wrapped in brooding and disappointment."

Tommy blinked. "You cook too? Because I could use a bacon sandwich and a hug from a man who understands silence."

Diggle's eyebrows didn't move. "Back seat. Now."

Tommy gave a mock-salute. "Yes, sir, Sergeant Sassypants."

He climbed in without hesitation, already halfway into a ramble about how the night had gone full CW-drama.

Oliver lingered. Just a moment longer. Watching where Laurel and Thea had disappeared.

Diggle noticed. He lowered his voice, not soft — never soft — but less sharp. A kindness in gravel.

"She's safe," he said. "And tomorrow? You fix it. Whatever it is. Tonight, we eat something greasy."

Oliver didn't say a word. He just nodded once — sharp, like a promise to himself — and got in.

The SUV pulled away from the curb, melting into Starling City's neon shadow.

Behind them, the bass from the club finally faded.

All that was left was silence, guilt, and the slow churn of conversations still waiting to be had.

—

BIG BELLY BURGER – LATE NIGHT

The diner buzzed under flickering fluorescent lights — that peculiar hum that always made things feel a little too real. The booths were cracked vinyl, the linoleum floor stained with decades of ketchup crimes and coffee spills. A couple of college kids nursed milkshakes in a booth near the jukebox, pretending to be rebels. A man in the back snored quietly into a plate of cold fries, undisturbed by the world.

Diggle held the door open with military precision, waiting as Oliver and Tommy trailed in behind him.

"Booth. Now. Try not to start a fistfight with the condiments," he said, voice flat and commanding.

Tommy let out a groan that could've qualified for an Oscar nomination. "You know, for someone who's spent years protecting the rich and dangerous, you sure know how to pick five-star locations."

"You're lucky I didn't drive us to a gas station," Diggle muttered.

Oliver didn't say a word. He looked like he'd lost a staring contest with a hurricane. Still pale, still haunted, still…Oliver.

They slid into a corner booth — Oliver on one side, staring at nothing in particular. Tommy across from him, already flipping the laminated menu like it contained state secrets.

"I swear," Tommy muttered, "some of these burgers haven't changed since I was twelve. And neither has the bacon grease. It's probably been grandfathered into the lease."

Diggle approached the counter, where Carly Diggle leaned with her elbows propped against the register, looking like she'd seen three shifts too many and still had one more in her. Her curls were tied up, hoop earrings flashing under the neon lights, and her smile — when it came — was equal parts affection and 'don't test me.'

She raised an eyebrow at the sight of him. "Well, damn. Look who finally dragged his brooding boy band out for dinner."

Diggle sighed like he'd aged ten years in five seconds. "Carly. Please."

She gave him a slow once-over, then tilted her chin toward the booth. "You adopting lost puppies now? That your thing?"

"They followed me home," he said, deadpan. "Can I keep them?"

Carly's laugh was low and warm, but her eyes were sharper than the knives in the back kitchen. "You need to stop picking up strays, John. You remember what happened the last time you got attached to someone who needed saving?"

Diggle's jaw flexed. The answer was in his eyes before it ever reached his mouth. "Yeah," he said softly. "I remember."

Her smile dimmed. Something heavy slipped between them — not angry, not even resentful. Just tired. Familiar.

"This job you're doing?" she said, her voice quieter now. "Andy did the same thing. Guarding billionaires with trust issues and death wishes. It didn't end with a pension."

"I know."

"Do you?" She leaned forward. "Because every time I tuck A.J. in and he asks why his dad isn't coming back — I swear, John — I don't want him asking the same damn question about his uncle."

Diggle didn't flinch. He'd had this argument with himself a thousand times. "This isn't the same."

"No," Carly said. "It just feels the same from here."

Silence.

Then, she reached for a notepad. "Fine. What do your strays eat?"

"Something greasy. Fries, burgers, maybe something with cheese that's medically irresponsible. One of them looks like he's been living on coconuts and PTSD. The other's probably fueled by champagne and inherited privilege."

Carly smirked. "Your usual?"

He nodded. "Yeah. And thanks."

She scribbled it down with the speed of someone who didn't have time for pity. Then she glanced toward the booth.

"Hey, Strays!" she called out. "You allergic to flavor and cholesterol?"

Tommy perked up, one eyebrow raised. "Only emotionally!"

Oliver raised a hand without looking up, half-wave, half 'I'm still technically alive.'

Diggle returned to the booth and slid in beside Oliver. Tommy was already mid-monologue.

"So… that woman. Behind the counter. With the eyes that could make a man reconsider all his bad choices. Is she—uh, single?"

Diggle didn't even blink. "She's my sister-in-law."

Tommy paled. "Oh. Right. Cool. Totally normal question. Just, you know, admiring her cheekbones. In a completely platonic and non-suicidal way."

Oliver's lips quirked. A micro-smile. Practically seismic coming from him.

Diggle poured himself a water. "You say one more word and I order you the veggie burger."

Tommy's eyes widened like he'd just heard a death sentence. "Not the veggie burger. That's—unholy."

"Exactly."

Carly arrived a moment later, balancing a tray like it was part of her. She dropped their waters with a thunk, tossed some napkins down, and winked at Tommy — probably just to watch him flinch.

Tommy blinked like she'd pulled a gun on him. "I—I appreciate the hydration."

She rolled her eyes and slid back toward the counter.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, sipping their water. The jukebox played something Motown — upbeat but tinged with longing.

Then Tommy leaned forward, eyes on Oliver.

"So. Buddy. How's your night going? Feel like emotionally oversharing?"

Oliver stared at his glass. His voice, when it came, was low. Flat. "You ever try to come home to a city that doesn't want you back?"

Diggle didn't flinch. "No. But I've carried enough bodies to know coming home's easy. It's the looking in the mirror part that gets you."

Tommy made a face. "Okay, that's deep. Like, we-should-have-whiskey deep."

Carly came back with their food — burgers dripping in sauce, fries stacked like golden towers of regret, and a third plate loaded with chili cheese something-or-other that might've been banned in five states.

"Eat," she ordered, setting the tray down with the authority of a general. "You all look like your trauma's about to grow legs and order for itself."

Tommy gave a low whistle. "Ma'am, this food might actually heal me."

"Good," she said, already walking away. "That plate's cheaper than therapy."

Tommy watched her retreat, then leaned in toward Diggle and whispered, "Still hot, though."

Diggle didn't look up. "I will end you. Happily."

Tommy held up his hands. "Heard. Received. Emotionally scarred."

They ate in relative silence — broken only by the occasional groan of pleasure from Tommy and the rhythmic clink of Oliver rearranging his fries like they were the ghosts of people he couldn't save.

And yet, beneath the fluorescent lights, the smell of fried everything, and the buzz of an old radio, there was something warm. Something that made survival feel just barely possible.

Sometimes, healing didn't start with a mission or a monologue.

Sometimes, it started with burgers.

—

The next day

The warehouse in The Glades felt like a forgotten grave. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of oil, dust, and old blood. Shafts of sunlight filtered through cracked skylights, painting the concrete floor in long, gold-gray streaks. Metal echoed louder here, the sound of a footstep resounding like a gunshot.

Oliver Queen stood at the center of the cold expanse, alone.

He wore a dark pea coat over a tight shirt and jeans, nothing flashy, but not exactly subtle either. His hands were gloved. Not to hide fingerprints — that wasn't necessary here — but to remind himself to stay contained. Controlled. Professional.

He wasn't here as a Queen. He was here as Kapot.

Behind him, a steel door shrieked open. Oliver didn't turn.

"I expected someone taller," came a voice like gravel and vodka.

Oliver glanced over his shoulder. Alexi Leonov strode toward him — broad-shouldered, bald, face like a butcher's block carved by a master sculptor with no love for subtlety. His dark wool coat hung open over a pinstripe suit and blood-red shirt. There was a gold chain glinting at his throat and a glint in his eyes that said he'd already figured out how to kill Oliver six different ways.

"Or richer," Alexi added. "You used to be richer, yes? I saw you once in GQ."

Oliver gave him a thin smile. "Didn't realize you subscribed."

"I don't. My girlfriend at the time used it to line her rabbit cage." Alexi stopped three feet from him. "Now, what's a pretty corpse like you doing in a place like this?"

Oliver's gaze didn't waver. "Я — Капот. Я служил в России под Анатолием Князевым. Я один из братьев." (I am Kapot. I served in Russia under Anatoli Knyazev. I am one of the brothers.)

That shifted something.

Not in Alexi's expression — that stayed amused — but in the room. The air got ten degrees colder, and somewhere near the catwalk above, a sniper adjusted his scope out of sheer reflex.

Alexi tilted his head, looking Oliver up and down like he was trying to decide whether to hug him or gut him.

"Big words. Big name. Anatoli doesn't let just anyone carry his shadow. You got any proof? Birthmark? Matching tattoos? Secret handshake?"

Oliver didn't blink. "If you know Anatoli, then you know he doesn't give out handshakes. Just scars."

Alexi grinned, showing a glint of gold tooth. "You got that right."

He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping.

"But the Bratva isn't a frat house, Mr. Queen. Anyone can say they're a brother. Hell, last week a nightclub DJ from Blüdhaven walked in here calling himself Ivan the Terrible. Turns out he was terrible... just not in the way he hoped."

Oliver's voice was steady. "I'm not here to impress you."

"No," Alexi said, stepping back. "You're here for favors. Which is impressive. Most people come here looking for a second chance or a place to hide. You? You waltz in asking for concierge service."

"I need a location," Oliver said. "A man named Floyd Lawton. He's operating in Starling City. I want a meeting."

Alexi let out a low chuckle and spread his arms. "And you think I'm the Yellow Pages?"

"I think you're a businessman who doesn't pass up leverage."

Alexi's smile dropped like a curtain. "Careful, Kapot. Just because you speak Russian doesn't mean you get to forget your manners."

Oliver's jaw clenched, but he gave a slow nod. "You're right. Let me rephrase."

He stepped forward, closing the gap.

"I'm not here to waste time. Lawton is on my list. I'm willing to trade. Favors. Intel. Or blood."

The pause stretched long. Then Alexi said dryly, "Still so dramatic. Did Anatoli teach you that, or is it an American thing?"

He turned to his men, who stood like bored bears near the warehouse walls.

"Я собираюсь проверить его слова. Посмотрим, говорит ли он правду. Наблюдайте за ним, пока я не вернусь." (I'm going to check his words. See if he speaks the truth. Watch him till I return)

Then, to Oliver, in English: "Wait here. Try not to bleed on anything."

He walked off toward the far end of the warehouse. Behind a shelf stacked with old shipping crates, a narrow steel door hissed open. The lock reengaged with a click, sealing him inside.

The silence returned.

One of the guards lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose like a dragon who'd run out of patience. Another rolled his neck and stared at Oliver like he was picturing a fight in his head.

The third muttered in Russian, "Он не выглядит как брат. Слишком чистый." (He doesn't look like a brother. Too clean.)

Oliver didn't look at him. Didn't smile.

"Я был чище, когда я утопил человека в озере за то, что он сказал то же самое." (I was cleaner when I drowned a man in a lake for saying the same thing.)

That earned silence.

The cigarette guy let out a low whistle.

The youngest one — maybe twenty-two, with sharp eyes and a twitchy right hand — tilted his head. "You really drown him?"

Oliver finally looked at him. "What do you think?"

"I think you're full of shit," the kid said.

"Then keep talking," Oliver replied. "And find out what else I'm full of."

The kid shut up.

Oliver turned his gaze back to the door Alexi had vanished through. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes tracked every movement in the room. This wasn't a social call. It was a test.

And he knew how to pass tests.

He'd passed harder ones in Siberian ice fields with blood freezing on his hands.

He could wait.

He'd waited five years to come home.

What was five more minutes?

—

The steel door hissed and groaned open like it was trying to change its mind.

Oliver didn't flinch. He didn't even look.

He just listened.

The weight of returning footsteps carried more than noise—they carried decision. Recognition. Maybe not trust, not yet, but something like it. The air grew denser, thicker with the tension of an answer about to arrive.

Alexi Leonov emerged from the gloom, shoulders squared, wool coat brushing the dust off an old shipping crate as he walked past. His gold chain glinted in a ray of sunlight like a threat.

He stopped ten feet from Oliver and offered a tight smile that didn't bother reaching his eyes.

"I called Anatoli," he said.

Oliver arched an eyebrow, finally turning to meet him.

"And?"

Alexi shrugged, his voice thick with gravel and a smirk.

"He says you're either the most dangerous man he ever made a brother…" He paused, enjoying the suspense. "Or the dumbest."

Oliver exhaled through his nose, a dry edge to the sound.

"He would say that."

"He also said," Alexi added, stepping closer, "that if I wanted to keep breathing without assistance, I should treat you with something between respect and extreme caution."

A beat passed. Then Alexi's grin widened like a crack splitting stone.

"Come. We drink."

He turned, gesturing toward a rusted desk half-covered in old paperwork and a tarp. On top sat a cut-crystal bottle of vodka and two glasses so clean they looked like they didn't belong in a place this filthy. Oliver hadn't seen him set it up, which made him think it had always been there. Waiting.

Oliver followed, slow and steady.

"You keep vodka in your stash, but not a heater?" he said.

Alexi chuckled.

"Vodka warms everything. Mind, body… occasionally enemy testimonies."

He poured the vodka with a practiced hand, not spilling a drop.

"This, my friend," he said, holding out the glass, "is the only thing in this warehouse not trying to kill you."

Oliver accepted the glass without comment. Clear liquid. Sharp scent. Cold.

Alexi lifted his own and looked Oliver in the eye.

"Про́чность."

Oliver lifted his in kind. "Prochnost."

They drank.

The vodka slid down Oliver's throat like liquid glass. Clean, burning, almost sterile in its purity. It was good vodka—maybe the best he'd had since Moscow. Not that he flinched.

Alexi did.

He exhaled, blinking twice. "You drink like a corpse."

Oliver swallowed and offered a flat look. "That's what Anatoli used to call me."

"Because you were quiet?"

"Because I kept coming back."

Alexi barked a laugh, rough and low.

"You're better company than Anatoli," he said. "Less dramatic. Same amount of brooding, but with more jawline."

"I'll pass on the compliment."

"Shame," Alexi said. "I was hoping you'd pass it with tongue."

Oliver didn't smile. That was the game. The banter. The tension between brothers and predators.

Alexi swirled the vodka in his glass and let the silence settle for a few seconds before he finally spoke again.

"I'll put out feelers. Lawton's a ghost. Not a man you just find. You track his consequences, then you work backward from the bodies."

Oliver nodded once.

"I've done that before."

"I believe it." Alexi tapped his temple. "You have the look. Like a man who does autopsies with his bare hands."

Oliver reached into his coat and pulled out a matte-black card, its surface barely catching the light. No name. No markings. Just a single number etched in silver across the center.

He slid it across the desk.

"Burner," he said. "Encrypted. Signal bounces through three continents before it hits me."

Alexi picked it up, squinting at the number.

"Fancy."

"I accessorize my paranoia."

He snorted.

"Of course you do. You were Bratva. And now… what? Vigilante? Billionaire monk? I can't keep up with your costume changes."

"I don't wear costumes anymore."

"No?" Alexi tilted his head. "Then what's this look called? 'Trauma-chic'? 'I-brood-in-alleys'?"

Oliver didn't take the bait. He let the silence answer for him.

Alexi pocketed the card with a small nod, his tone softening—fractionally.

"If I find him, I'll call. But you should know—Lawton doesn't do meetings. He does bullets. And most of the time, he doesn't even do the courtesy of a second shot."

"I'm not asking for a favor. I'm offering one."

Alexi gave a thoughtful hum.

"You Old-School Bratva types always speak in riddles. Never say what you mean, just circle the drain until someone flushes."

Oliver leaned forward slightly.

"Then let me be clear: I don't want to kill Lawton. I want to use him."

Alexi blinked.

"Dangerous idea."

"I've had worse."

He laughed again, but there was less humor now, more calculation.

"You know… you ever need more than Lawton—someone gone, something moved, someone scared—don't go to Anatoli. He gets sentimental. I don't."

Oliver nodded slowly, almost respectfully.

"I don't do sentimental either. I do results."

Alexi raised his glass again, empty though it was.

"Then we'll get along just fine."

Oliver turned without another word and started walking. His boots echoed on the concrete—hard, precise, the sound of someone who knew exactly where he was going.

At the door, he paused just long enough to look back over his shoulder.

"And Alexi?"

The man lifted an eyebrow.

"Tell your guy on the catwalk to change his scope setting. He's off by two clicks."

He walked out without waiting for a reaction.

The steel door creaked shut behind him.

Alexi stared at the closed door, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like it was being dragged there against its will.

One of his men stepped forward from the shadows.

"He's not Bratva," the guard said in Russian. "Too clean. Too quiet."

Alexi lit his cigarette, dragged deep, and let the smoke pour out like fog.

"No," he said. "He's not like us."

He turned, flicking ash onto the concrete.

"He's worse."

—

Meanwhile

The breakfast room of Longbottom Manor was a cathedral of sunlight and silver. Sunbeams spilled through the tall mullioned windows like divine judgment, catching the fine china, ancient oak, and the absurdly large silver teapot that seemed to exude a sense of superiority over all things ceramic.

The table—probably older than Merlin's left slipper—was piled high with toast racks, jam jars, eggs in all styles, and enough sausage to make a werewolf nervous. There was even a suspiciously smug-looking bowl of porridge that no one dared touch.

Harry sat at the head of the table like a knight who'd misplaced his sword but remembered his coffee. His black t-shirt clung to a broad chest that had clearly seen war, fire, and far too many mornings like this one. He looked like sin wrapped in brooding wrapped in jam—literally, considering the smear of blackberry by the corner of his mouth.

Across from him, Daphne Greengrass sat with the poise of a queen planning a coup. She wore tailored black trousers, a silk blouse that whispered money, and a look that suggested she could shatter egos for breakfast. Her blonde hair was pinned up with surgical precision, and she sipped her tea like it had insulted her family name.

"You've got jam on your face," she said, eyes on her teacup.

Harry didn't look up. "Do I?"

"Mm," she hummed. "Ruining the whole 'haunted war god' aesthetic."

"I'm going for 'mildly unhinged but devastatingly charming,'" Harry replied, licking the jam away with all the casual defiance of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Daphne raised one perfectly shaped brow. "You're succeeding at 'jammy orphan in need of supervision.'"

He smirked over the rim of his mug. "Then by all means, supervise me."

Hermione made a strangled sound from behind her scrolls. She was curled up in the window seat with ink on her fingers, a croissant between her teeth, and enough intelligence radiating off her to power the entire Ministry.

"Can you two flirt after we secure the rebellion?" she asked, not looking up.

"Technically, we're not flirting," Daphne said coolly.

"Speak for yourself," Harry muttered.

Neville grunted as he refilled his goblet of pumpkin juice. The man looked like he'd spent the night wrestling trolls—which, knowing him, wasn't impossible. His hair was tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms that could probably bench-press Hagrid.

"Merlin's saggy pants, you two," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's eight in the bloody morning."

"Which is peak sarcasm hour," Harry said. "We missed second peak at 3 a.m. when Daphne threatened to hex me for stealing her pillow."

"It was my bed," Daphne retorted.

"And yet I woke up with you curled against me like a cat in silk."

She sipped her tea, unbothered. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. You're warm. And possessively soft in your sleep."

"Soft?" he asked, mock-affronted.

"In the emotional sense," she added, not blinking.

Harry turned to Neville with a smirk. "So. About that army of ours."

Neville, already halfway through a sausage, nodded. "From Potter's Army? Not many left. A lot drifted. Some were lost. A few... just didn't want to keep fighting."

"Cowards?" Daphne asked, archly.

"Burnt out," Neville corrected. "We fought young. We broke early. Some didn't come back together."

Hermione's quill scratched faster. "We expected that."

"But," Neville went on, voice firm, "we still have a core."

He started ticking off names on thick fingers.

"Susan Bones. Mad-Eye trained her until he died. She finished her training with a Hit-Wizard in Spain. She's built like a dueling arena. Deadly in a fight."

Daphne's eyes sparkled. "Can we keep her?"

Harry smirked. "Can't collect all the powerful women, Daph."

She glanced sideways. "No. But we can certainly try."

Neville continued, eyes twinkling despite the fatigue. "Fred and George—weaselly bastards with a talent for mayhem. Their shop's just a front. They've got joke products that can turn someone inside-out and sell for three galleons. They're in."

Harry grinned. "Gave them the seed money from the Triwizard winnings."

Neville blinked. "Wait—you funded Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"

"I needed someone to blow things up while I pretended to brood in the shadows."

Daphne leaned closer. "You brooded on the roof of the Astronomy Tower with a bottle of Firewhisky and the complete works of Byron."

"I'm a Gryffindor with a flair for the dramatic," Harry said, deadpan. "Sue me."

Neville rolled his eyes. "Ginny's in. Vicious with a wand. Cho's lethal on a broom. Seamus and Dean are our logistics guys. Bombs, escape routes. Pansy and Tracey—information runners. Slytherin pragmatists. Not to be underestimated."

"Pansy Parkinson," Daphne murmured, eyes narrowing. "From 'purebloods are people too' to 'underground resistance,' eh?"

"She's bored," Neville said. "Bored people with ambition are dangerous."

"She always was a fan of sharp knives and sharper exits," Hermione murmured. "She might surprise us."

"She'd better," Daphne replied coolly. "I'm not sharing eyeliner with dead weight."

Neville continued, his voice quieting. "Then there's Luna."

Hermione frowned. "Lovegood?"

Neville nodded. "Brilliant. Bizarre. Possibly a Seer. Said something about not trusting birds in bowties two weeks before I caught an Animagus spy dressed as a pigeon at the Ministry Gala."

There was silence. Then Harry burst out laughing. "Did you hex him?"

"Transfigured his bowtie into a weasel," Neville said smugly.

Daphne blinked. "Okay. That's either madness or tactical genius."

"Both," Neville said.

Hermione looked up. "We'll need her. She sees what others miss."

Neville nodded. "Tonks is in. Can't be as open. Raising Teddy. But she's still Nymphadora bloody Tonks."

"Excellent," Harry said. "I want her on our side, or not at all."

"Kingsley's still Minister. But he'll help. Quietly."

"And Bill and Fleur?" Hermione asked, biting into her croissant again.

"She's making gear, while he still deals with curses, enchantments, and wards. I just talked to Fleur last night, She's already finished the gear for Daphne. Called it 'un style mortel.'"

Daphne preened. "Murderous chic."

Harry gave her a long look. "You'll wear it well."

"Of course I will," she said, finishing her tea.

"Angelina, Alicia, Katie, and Lee are also in," Neville added. "Angelina and Alicia are Fred and George's better halves, while Katie is dating Lee. Lee's running pirate broadcasts again. He's got contacts in the magical underground."

"So," Hermione said, eyes flicking between names and diagrams, "we've got a start. Not a full army—but a network."

"We don't need an army," Harry said, his voice low but steady. "We need believers. Fighters. Family."

Neville nodded. "That's what we've got."

A moment of quiet passed between them. Outside, birds chirped. The wind stirred the garden hedges.

Daphne stood, smoothing the front of her blouse. "Good. Because we're going to need every bloody one of them. And time is not on our side."

Harry finished his coffee, licking the last of the jam from his thumb in the least holy way imaginable.

"Then let's not waste it," he said.

Neville pushed back his chair. "I'll start making calls."

Hermione rolled up her scrolls with a snap. "We need codenames. Something ominous. Dramatic."

"Sexy," Daphne added, throwing Harry a look over her shoulder.

Harry grinned. "You just want to hear me say something ridiculous like 'Operation Phoenix Rising.'"

"Sounds like a shampoo," Daphne shot back.

Hermione chimed in. "Phoenix Requiem?"

Harry raised a brow. "Too depressing. Sounds like a eulogy for a bird."

Daphne leaned in as she passed him, her breath warm near his ear. "You'll think of something clever, won't you, Potter?"

He turned to watch her go, a slow grin tugging at his lips. "I always do."

Neville groaned. "You two are exhausting."

Hermione chuckled. "Get used to it. This is what saving the world looks like—again."

Neville rubbed his face. "Bloody fantastic."

Outside, the wind picked up. Clouds began to roll across the horizon, dark and heavy.

Inside, something far older and more dangerous stirred in the blood of the people seated around that table.

The war wasn't over.

It had just been waiting for them to wake up.

---

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